Wrathion rarely let himself relax. But tonight? He let you pull him down beside you on the oversized lounge, his armor long since shed, replaced with soft linens and a velvet robe that still somehow looked regal.

He was curled around you now, one arm slung lazily over your waist, claws absent tonight. Just warm fingers drawing soft patterns against your back.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled against your shoulder, voice drowsy with comfort.